


BBC Sherlock: Time Well Spent

by Wynsom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-25 00:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9793991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynsom/pseuds/Wynsom
Summary: Contains spoilers for Season 4. At the bottom of a well in "The Final Problem," John had unexpected time for introspection. In this episode, there were several conversations John and Sherlock exchanged while John was in the well. Each chapter will explore segments of time John spent in the well between their broken communications.





	1. Chapter 1. Well. Being...

**Author's Note:**

> A.N. Both Sherlock and John wore earpieces, it is not clear whether Eurus was in control of what each heard. Sometimes it appeared that they were not always able to hear each other. Eurus let them both hear her singing, but when the little girl on the plane was speaking, John was not part of the conversation. These chapters explore what John thought during those moments of silence.

**TIME WELL SPENT**

**Chapter 1.**

**Well.**

**Being…**

888

"Are you  _there_  yet?"

" _YEAH!_  I'm here." Jolted, John shook his head, alerted by the sound of Sherlock's voice. Dazed, grappling with his awareness, he rose to his feet, dripping wet and soaked to the skin from the waist down, to stand at attention with lightning reflexes.

"John!" The tremendous relief in Sherlock's voice was unmistakable through the earpiece.

"Yeah." His crisp affirmation concealed his confusion.

"Where are you?"

"I don't know. I've just woken up." John registered the deep chill permeating his waterlogged clothes, but his personal condition was secondary. "Where are you?"

"In another cell. I just spoke to the girl on the plane again. We've been out for hours."

"What? She's  _still_  up there?" Although the standing water was baffling and his visual reconnaissance was significantly hampered by the dark, John agreed that the little girl and the many passengers aboard the plane  _were_  still their top priority.

"Yes. The plane will keep flying until it runs out of fuel."

Listening intently to the voice in his one ear whilst trying to detect outside sounds with the other, John peered into the obscurity and glanced up. The walls around him towered so high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. The blackness frustrated visibility. There seemed no avenues to find Sherlock's cell, nor could he hear anything to indicate Sherlock might be nearby. His friend's voice was solely emanating from the earpiece.

"Is Mycroft with you?" There was an edge of disquiet in Sherlock's question.

"I have no idea. " John leaned back against the rocky surface and shivered despite himself. "I can hardly see anything. My-croft?  _MY-CROFT_?"

The lack of Mycroft's response worried them both.

"Are  _you_  okay?" There again—as it had been so frequently of late—John heard the unmasked concern in Sherlock's voice.

"Yeah." John felt no need to mention the potential for hypothermia just yet, although he was chilled to the bone.

"All right," Sherlock huffed in resignation. "Well, just keep exploring. Tell me anything you can about where you are."

John's shivering hands detected the uneven, sometimes slimy fortification that enclosed him. "The walls are ...rough," he reported. "They're rock, I guess."

"What are you standing on?" the earpiece crackled.

"Uh," John glanced down toward his feet and shrugged. "Stone, I think. But listen. There's about two feet of water..."

He felt a tug of resistance as he attempted to raise one foot free above the surface. "Chains," he exhaled under his breath. Shaking his head—the challenges of his confinement had become a bit clearer—he leaned over and reached down into the water. "Yeah, my feet are chained up." His groping hand underneath the water connected with floating objects. "I can feel something," he said as he snatched up his discovery, sticks of some sort, and stood. Too dark to identify it immediately by sight, he used his diagnostic touch to discern what he had found. The long slender objects were not flat, but cylindrical and had a familiar shape like branches or "…bones, Sherlock. There are bones in here." He repeated half to himself.

"What kind of bones?" Sherlock replied sounding both curious and distracted.

"Uh, I dunno." A tingling chill ran down John's spine that had nothing to do with being wet. Unwilling to believe the unthinkable about the objects he held in his hand he stuttered. "S-small."

"Redbeard." Sherlock whispered softly in stark dismay and then John's earpiece cut out.

**50 seconds and counting**

John fiddled with the earpiece. He tried not to imagine that this might be his last contact with his friend…with anyone—his breath hitched—with  _Rosie_! The ache nearly overpowered him.

Breathing hard, he shoved away the dread those thoughts stirred and yanked angrily on the chains that hobbled him, checking their length, testing their strength and how much mobility they allowed him.  _Not much._ More perplexing was the presence of water at thigh level. It was a pool of some kind, not a sewer; his prison did not have the associated stench, but he wondered where all the water had come from and why it had not drained.

Waiting for his eyes to adjust to his surroundings, John found himself reciting what he knew about night vision to keep his anxieties at bay and his mind focused on rational thoughts. " _The key to night vision is the photopigment Rhodopsin used by the rods. Darkness causes the molecules to regenerate in a process called 'dark adaptation' in which the eye adjusts to see in the low-lighting conditions."_

There was some visibility in the extreme low light. John was pleased his eyes had adapted, but what he could see was not encouraging. He was within a door-less, windowless room, encircled by a massive wall of wet stone. There was no staircase up or down, no ladder that he could see or feel, and no obvious means of egress.

_Is this a basement in a turret or some kind of tower? Maybe there's a window or door above just out of view. If only I could only see..._

Frowning, John was certain that either way, there were no expectations of him getting out without assistance. Quashing a wave of panic, he wondered why he was there in the first place.

_How does this fit in Eurus' plan?_

Unbidden and in a flash, memories reeled him back to relive in vivid detail the most agonizing moments….

888

"Shoot Doctor Watson." Coldly calculating Mycroft had made his impeccable reasoning perfectly clear. "There's no question  _who_  has to continue from here. It's us; you and me. Whatever lies ahead requires  _brainpowe_ r, Sherlock, not sentiment. Don't prolong his agony; shoot him."

"Do I get a say in this?" John remembered protesting, finding the circumstances so unbelievably absurd he hadn't been sure if an appeal was actually necessary. Certainly what either of them had to say would probably not have helped Sherlock make so difficult a decision. John had trusted Sherlock with his life many times, but in this last challenge it had not been a question of trust. It had become a choice. Who should be saved? Who would have to die? It was the same choice the one-time army surgeon had made on the surgical table as the wounded poured into the hospital unit. Not all could be saved.

"Today, we are soldiers." Mycroft had reminded them all, throwing John's own words back at him as the two men faced each other. "Soldiers die for their country. I regret, Doctor Watson, that privilege is now yours."

John stared at Mycroft, stymied by the irrefutable logic. The elder Holmes knew Eurus. John did not. Only family—not an outsider—could stand a chance against their criminally insane sister.

Scarce days ago, there had been that quietly intense argument between Sherlock and Mycroft back at 221B— "This is a private matter." " **John stays**." "This is  _family_." " **That's WHY he stays**!" —which secured John's position in the family…

_"Be careful what you wish for..."_ Sherlock had once warned long ago in the tube car filled with explosives after he had fulfilled John's wish and returned from the dead. But John would have had it no other way. He  _belonged_  by Sherlock's side, come what may.

However, it had now come to this. It  _had_  to be blood-brother over bond-brother, requiring a strategic decision in a family battle of wits.

"Shit! He's right…" In the face of the facts, John turned toward his silent friend, acknowledging the sacrifice being required of him—the soldier assigned to a suicide mission.

A shadow of doubt had flickered across Sherlock's grim countenance. Or was it anguish?

"He is, in fact, right," John had stated simply, trying to mask his alarm and fully aware that furthering the quarrel could not change their circumstances.

Pushing his advantage, Mycroft had kept his eyes on John as he ordered his brother. "Make it swift. No need to prolong his agony. Get it over with." Imbuing his voice with blatant disregard for the life of the man beside him, he had turned away and sniffed. "And we can get to work."

Except Sherlock's hesitancy had become an obstacle provoking Mycroft to greater ridicule. A snarling laugh had preceded the elder Holmes' brazen mockery. " _God!_ " With a reptilian flick of his tongue, Mycroft parted his lips, and bared a wicked grin of disdain. Hands thrust in pockets showed his utter disapproval. "I should have expected this.  _Pathetic_. You always were the slow one…"

Although he had pivoted his face away and down, the tilt of Sherlock's head and lifted eyebrow had been the only indicators that he was in fact listening; even so, his stubborn silence had served to infuriate Mycroft.

"…the idiot. That's why I've always despised you," Mycroft had hissed in scorn. "You  _shame_  us all. You shame the  _family_  name. Now, for once in your life, do the right thing. Put this  _stupid_ little man out of all our misery."

John chewed his lower lip to hold his tongue, although the lump in his throat had made it impossible to speak.

"Shoot him!" With eviscerating vehemence Mycroft had goaded, " _Shoot_ him!"

"Stop it." The younger brother had quietly commanded his elder.

Triggered by Sherlock's impassivity, Mycroft had seemed driven to escalate his attack. " _Look_  at him. What  _is_ he?"

Whilst John had clenched his fists, bracing himself as best he might for the searing devastation of a bullet, he had been more stunned by Mycroft's reaction. John had offered no argument. Why had Mycroft launched such a battering offensive against him?

"Nothing more than a  _distraction_ …" Locked and loaded with lethal cruelty, Mycroft had discharged every denunciation in his arsenal "…a little  _scrap_  of  _ordinariness_  for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You'll find another…"

This had been a low and terrible blow, sure to mortify Sherlock on an emotional level and redirect him to think logically. Yet, whilst Mycroft's words had been aimed at Sherlock, they had instead penetrated John as if the gun had actually been fired, and the single bullet had exploded in his heart.

888

It had been mere moments since Sherlock and he had lost communication and it had taken but a few fleeting seconds for John to revisit those painful memories.

But something had pulled him abruptly back to the present. Maybe it was the thudding in his ears, synchronized with his rapid heartbeat; or his hands which tingled unpleasantly, if not from the cold, then from his body's psychological distress. The shortness of breath did not help, it was making him dizzy. PTSD symptoms notwithstanding, he was sure he was hyperventilating and that was easier to control.

_Nice one, John! Going all to pot. Calm yourself._

John rolled his head, and rotated his shoulders, chagrined that he had let himself get carried away. If this were how isolation affected him, he'd better get a grip. There was no predicting how long he would be stuck here and the last thing he needed was to go raving bonkers in the interim.

_Isolated. In water._

It was unlike being isolated in a flotation tank which had sensory benefits, as John recalled. Off the top of his head he could remember some—decreased production of cortisol, ACTH, lactic acid and adrenaline, increased production of endorphins, heightened visualization, and created mental clarity, alertness. Instead, wherever he was, it was increasing his stress and his thoughts were in free fall. It was more like the kind of mental process he experienced standing up in the daily shower, and lately, not all those thoughts had been beneficial.

Resolute, he scrubbed down his face and sighed. He had nowhere to go and idle time was his worst enemy. He needed to focus, to think back to what he last experienced in the cell at Sherrinford. Maybe he might remember something about how he got here, wherever  _here_ was. Promising himself he would keep his emotions under control this time, John resumed where he had left off in his memory—that disturbing moment:

After Mycroft had failed miserably with personal insults targeting Sherlock, he had switched tactics, and instead, desecrated Sherlock's inviolate friendship with John.

But Sherlock had put a quick end to the madness, not by shooting Mycroft; rather, by exposing his older brother's deliberate provocation for what it was _—kindness._

_Only a Holmes would consider verbally demoralizing a person a kindness…_

Shocked as he was by the withering disparagement, John had felt astonishment, admiration, even gratitude for Mycroft's over-the-top reverse psychology. Of course Sherlock rarely did as told, which had been Mycroft's plan.

Toneless and detached, Eurus had been unsurprised by her big brother's solution to the elimination round. She revealed that this decision had been predicted by his intellectual peer— Moriarty. In fact, the consulting criminal had relished the outcome of "Holmes killing Holmes" in a pre-taped video, implying that this prediction had been based upon Sherlock's perceived weakness:  _sentiment for John Watson._

Unlike Moriarty and even Eurus, however, Mycroft had offered the solution from a genuine and deep-rooted regret for his involvement, a sense of justice for his complicity, as well as affection for his brother. He had a  _sentimental_  reason—certainly this was an oxymoron for the more cerebral Holmes brother.

Yet, there was scarce time to acknowledge the gesture. Sherlock had turned the tables on Moriarty and Eurus when literally he turned the gun away from his brother—despite his years of ranting, Sherlock never had fratricide in his heart—and pressed it under his own chin to make the ultimate sacrifice. Dread had made John's blood run cold and he tensed in readiness to intercept.

Before Sherlock could pull the trigger, an expertly aimed tranquilizer dart had aborted Sherlock's countdown; a similar dart had hit John.

As the twilight of the imminent blackout began to blur his vision, John had seen Mycroft still standing—there had been no dart for him—just as the gamers had predicted, the older Holmes would not have needed one as a dead man. What Sherlock had done was game-changing!

_Where was Mycroft now? Did they kill him anyway?_

John feared for what had become of him. No matter what mistakes the man had made out of hubris or a misguided sense of responsibility, Mycroft did not deserve to die like that. John could admit that he had grown to appreciate the man and his devotion to his younger brother.

_But the sister! Sherlock had been right. She had been subjecting them to emotional vivisection._

Soaked and shivering in the dark, John was chained to more than the floor. Anxious thoughts weighed on him like an anchor. Still helplessly corralled in a cell where there was little light and virtually no other noises, except the sound of his own splashing, John wondered with mounting urgency: _what more could Eurus have in store for Sherlock?_

Fearing the worst for his friend, John crossed his arms over his chest and bowed his head. Wishing with all his might for a miracle, he would just settle for one word to know that Sherlock was still okay…

_888_


	2. Chapter 2 Well. Wishing…

**TIME WELL SPENT**

**Chapter 2**

**Well.**

**Wishing…**

John got his miracle a breath later. His earpiece crackled with static.

"All right, then. That means you're nearly home." Clearly it was Sherlock in mid-conversation with the girl on the plane, offering encouragement.

John could not hear the girl.

Startled, John swallowed his relief at the sound of his friend's voice just as a soft light from above caught his eye. Meters high, the full moon unsheathed from dark clouds filling the circular aperture that appeared over his head, and John's spirits sank. This was no tower.

" _Sherl_ ock?" John called out, wasting no time, worried that he might be cut off again. "I'm in a well. That's where I am." With disbelief and dismay, he whispered softly, "I'm in the bottom of a well."

John heard a sharp intake of breath and then the frown in Sherlock's reply.

"Why would there be a  _well_  in Sherrinford?" There was another pause, as if Sherlock were exploring his space and mumbling to himself. "Why is there a draught? Walls don't contract after you've painted them."

John strained to hear every inflection in his friend's voice and caught the delighted nuance of discovery in Sherlock's soft declaration. "Not  _real_ ones." After a clamorous sound as if a huge object had slammed to the ground, John heard the hushed surprise in Sherlock's words. "I'm home. Musgrave Ha—"

Then the earpiece cut out.

**71 seconds**

**888**

"No, no!  _Don't_  go!"

John howled and smacked the water in utter fury, unable to keep from wondering and worrying.

 _"I worry about him. Constantly_."

Echoes of Myrcoft—as the mysterious man of long ago—replayed in John's head. Apparently, Mycroft had reasons to worry. Some were no thanks to his brand of well-meaning meddling that Sherlock had often resisted out of mere stubbornness. At other times, the interference had caused Sherlock considerable grief— like earlier today when Mycroft disclosed, long after serious damage had been done, that their criminally insane sister had associated with Moriarty.

_Utter cock! Knob head!_

Yet, John had come to believe Mycroft's sincerity. Gradually, John had learned to recognize that the somewhat bossy sibling with emotional limitations of his own  _had_ been concerned about Sherlock's well-being. What had appeared between the brothers to be caustic exchanges were forms of sparring with undertones of fondness, cues easily missed by socially  _normalized_ people. Subsequently John's opinion of the elder Holmes had risen; likewise John had believed that for Mycroft the reverse had also been true. Which was why, despite Sherlock's advice to ignore Mycroft's tirade and stinging insults, John could not. They wounded him deeply.

"…a little  _scrap_  of  _ordinariness_  for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness..."

_Moriarty, Irene Adler, Magnussen, Eurus…all had the same opinion._

Bitterly John sloshed about the well, pulling so hard on the chains that the cuffs cut into his ankles. He tugged several more times with force. The pain was good. He needed to focus on something else. Twisting toward the wall, John felt the rough-hewed edges. His fingers climbed upward searching for crevices to use as handholds, and perhaps footholds if he could free himself. It would then be a matter of scaling the wall to gain his freedom and finding Sherlock. Yet, the challenges of escaping failed to distract him from the persistent arguments that warred in his head.

Finally, John leant his forehead against the wall in frustration and delved into his deepest thoughts— possibly the most profound—for the first time in years.

" _Look_  at him. What  _is_ he?" Mycroft had sneered.

"I'm… I'm nobody," had been John's self-deprecating answer at the beginning of his partnership with Sherlock Holmes. His flatmate on the other hand had been reputed to be singular, brilliant, extraordinary, albeit quite difficult.

_All true!_

Why would a self-proclaimed sociopathic genius as Sherlock Holmes choose an invalided soldier as a "friend?"

At the Met, Sergeant Sally Donovan had been quite vocal about her incredulity. Other than assume and talk behind their cupped hands, what had any of them—excepting Lestrade and Mycroft—actually known about the man, the real Sherlock Holmes and his deepest motivation?

But apparently, everyone—even those who knew Sherlock best—wondered what motivated the great detective to single out John Watson.

 _"Since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"_ Mysterious Mycroft had said during their first clandestine meeting.

Whatever the original appeal had been to accompany Sherlock on their often "ridiculous adventures," it had changed as John became more aware of the person behind the façade. The  _real_  Sherlock Holmes had more to give than exciting adventures, astounding solutions to mystifying crimes, and astonishing lessons about the science of deduction. The detective had apparently made an impact, often good, on the lives of many. There were members within his homeless network, among his most devious hackers, and former clients—including the likes of Angelo and Mrs. Hudson—who counted themselves among his most loyal devotees.

 _Obviously, they had never lived with him... Oh yeah, except for Mrs. Hudson_.

What had Sherlock done for each of them John did not know; what Sherlock had done for John was monumental.

The instant Angelo handed John back the cane left behind at the restaurant—a cane John obviously no longer needed as he accompanied Sherlock on a chase through back alleyways and across rooftops without it—John had been intrigued and challenged.

As a flatmate, Sherlock could never have been accused of coddling the invalided soldier. The longer John had associated with the consulting detective, who deliberately tried John's patience by being "an annoying dick" nearly "all the time," the more John mustered his dignity and his pride and his determination to push back, to  _assert_  himself to prove he was nobody's doormat. On balance, there had been those moments of utter ridiculousness that propelled them into fits of laughter—genuine and liberating—the kind John had not enjoyed since he was a child.

No  _one_ thing about Sherlock Holmes had turned John's life around and saved him from existence as a "nobody." It had been  _all_ things. Their shared experiences had formed a unique, inexplicable, and mutual companionship, and in the process, Sherlock had returned to John that which the wounded soldier had lost—a sense of his own self-worth. So, when it came to loyalty and allegiance, no devotee— _nobody—_ could surpass John Watson.

Maybe it took one to know one. Striving to prove his cleverness to everyone, Sherlock had hidden his own self-doubts behind a high wall bricked with arrogance and obnoxious condescension. On those occasions when John saw through the chink in that wall, he caught glimpses of a man driven to prove himself, but seemingly without achieving satisfaction.

Perhaps, their story had begun as the genius needing his audience; the army doctor needing validation. It had become greater than either of them alone and it had seemed unbreakable even after death.

_Well, it would have been… if the death had not been faked..._

Upon the unexpected resurrection of the man he had buried, John had felt both extreme joy and decided wariness. He could not forget his loss, his anguish, his sense of betrayal, even if Sherlock had pigeonholed the consequences and wanted to move on. John had been willing to move forward with his friend, somewhat more cautiously perhaps, because at least he had Mary….

 _"I like him."_ Mary had said after their first meeting.

…Mary, who recognized almost immediately what John had tried to deny; she understood him  _and_  Sherlock: with uncanny insight, she appreciated their dynamic because she recognized how rare it was.

 _…She encouraged us._  His eyes grew moist. With a wet and chilled palm John mopped his lids.

_Bollocks!_

This predicament, being stuck at the bottom of a well, was putting him in a terrible mood. It was _bloody_  foolishness to waste what little time he might have with past wounds and trifling pride, but he could not seem to keep his mind from skipping through his memories at an accelerated pace. It didn't help that his water-resistant wristwatch was waterlogged and no longer working. It was unsettling, not knowing the time _._

_"To the very best of times, John."_

"Yeah. The best of times; they're not over yet, mate!" John vowed aloud to reassure himself— and perhaps to Sherlock if his friend were even listening. If he were lucky enough to survive this ordeal, he would make amends and become the better man both Mary and Sherlock had believed him to be.

_To hell what others thought anyway. Surely by now their perceptions had changed._

John knew that Sherlock's strong reciprocal regard had nothing to do with being gay, needing a pet, or having a play  _thing_ for the easily bored intellect. Time and valor had proven John's worth as Sherlock's comrade-in-arms. What mattered most was what John knew to be true. Both Sherlock and he had found in the other a genuine friend.

This business about Redbeard had been eye-opening. Apparently, Sherlock had been seeking a friend for a very long time.

888

"First, find Redbeard."

Eurus broke into John's revere like an electric shock. "I'm letting the water in now. You don't want me to drown  _another_  one of your pets, do you?" She taunted with dispassionate intensity. "At long last, Sherlock Holmes, it's time to solve the Musgrave Ritual."

Throughout her announcement Eurus' voice dominated the airways, so John could not ask Sherlock what was wrong, but he could hear his friend breathing rapidly.

"Your very first case!"

Gushing sounds thundered from above and water slid down a sluice in a rushing cascade.

"And the final problem—" The rest of her words were drowned by the waterfall tumbling over John.

"Sherlock?" John pressed against the wall of the well to avoid the assault of the downpour. He could not be sure anyone could hear him although he was able to hear a woman singing.

"Sherlock!" He shouted louder, still unable to hear a reply.

John grimaced at the shower that splashed from above and caused turbulence in the thigh-high water below him. Shivering with shock, John tried to determine how quickly the well would fill. His calculations were not mathematically accurate—he was no Holmes—but he didn't need to be a genius to recognize that his situation had become decidedly dire. Rescue would have to be soon…

Though the words of the singing woman were indistinguishable and nearly drowned by flowing tide from above, John picked up Sherlock's faint cry.

"John!" The whisper in his ear sounded choked at first, when repeated, it had grown stronger, pressing.  _"JOHN!"_

Sherlock was shouting, desperate to be heard, "John? Can you hear me? JOHN!"

When the singing seemed to die out, John feared he has lost all contact again.

"Sherlock!" He called urgently.

 _"Be not afraid ..."_  the singing suddenly returned, the volume was a bit louder so John could understand the words. Just as clear was the Sherlock's affirmation.

"John."

"Yeah, it's flooding." John could not conceal his frustration and disappointment. "The well..is flooding…."

"Try as long as possible not to drown."

John fiddled with his earpiece. Rushing water aside, had he heard correctly? Sherlock was stating the obvious, not a good sign. "What?"

"I'm going to find you." Sherlock promised him and immediately corrected himself adding with unmistakable emphasis. "I  _AM_  finding you!"

"Well, hurry up, please," John shouted, aggravation mounting with his alarm, "because I don't have long!"

_Jesus! Talk about stating the obvious._

Despite Sherlock's promise, John knew if he could climb a bit higher in the well, he might he buy more time. His valiant attempt ended as the chains, fixed in place, pulled him off balance and into the water where he landed in a huge splash, fully submerged.

888


	3. Chapter 3 Well.  Meaning...

**TIME WELL SPENT**

**Chapter 3**

**Well.**

**Meaning...**

John shot out of the water and gasped, not from loss of air, but from dismay.

Although he had been unable to hear anything beneath the churning turbulence, he was at first too stunned to fully register the ongoing conversation between Eurus and Sherlock.

"Eurus, you said the answer's in the song." Sherlock was talking fast, pleading, his voice shaking with uncharacteristic emotions. "But I went through the song line by line all those years ago and I found nothing. I couldn't find anything. And there, there was a beech tree in the grounds and I dug. I dug and dug and dug and dug." The dilemma from his childhood unearthed the childlike despair in his words. His voice wobbled and he pulled an agonizing breath to steady it before he continued. "Sixteen feet by six; sixteen yards; sixteen meters – and I found nothing.  _No_  one!"

"Sherlock?" The answer Sherlock sought was staring John in the face.

But Eurus was speaking over them both incessantly, taunting Sherlock with that certain cruelty only the insane could brandish. "It was a clever little puzzle, wasn't it? So why couldn't you work it out, Sherlock?"

Sherlock gave no reply. There was no sound at all, as if Sherlock was holding his breath.

"Sherlock?" John persisted with alarm in his voice. "There's something you need to know…."

John's earpiece picked up the panting breaths of his distressed friend.

"Emotional context. And he-e-e-e-re it comes," Eurus warned with enthusiasm.

"Sherlock?" John tried to keep apprehension out of his voice. "The bones I found—"

"Yes? They're dog's bones." Sherlock asserted with wavering confidence. His voice was strained as if he suspected he was wrong. "That's Redbeard!"

John shook his head as he examined what he held in his hands. "Mycroft's been lying to you; to both of us." John exhaled sadly, "They're not dog's bones—"

Eurus interrupted with a long-withheld clue. "Remember Daddy's allergy? What was he allergic to?"

John stood on tip toes to keep the rising flood at chest level and stared as if in a mirror. No blow aimed at Sherlock could be as crushing as this, and Eurus knew it well!

"What would he never let you have all those times you begged? Well, he'd  _ne-_ ver  _let_ you  _have_  a  _DOG!_ " she crooned with inappropriate glee.

Sherlock had withdrawn from the conversation, presumably sorting through painfully tender recollections that predated his Mind Palace.

"What a funny little memory, Sherlock." Eurus was savoring the process with diabolical pleasure. "You were upset ... so you told yourself a  _better_ story."

Beyond the noise of the rushing water John listened hard, expecting confirmation for the unspeakable truth.

"... but we never had a dog." Eurus revealed.

In the well, John knew the small skull he held in both hands—"Redbeard"—must have had a  _another_ name.

"Victor," Sherlock whispered softly as though an apparition had appeared before him.

"Now it's coming." Eurus prodded mercilessly.

"Victor Trevor." Sherlock's voice shook and trembled with horror. "We played pirates. I was  _Yellowbeard_ …" he broke off as if the images of his past were playing before his eyes. "And he was ..." The last phrase was partly a sob. "…he was  _Redbeard_."

"You were inseparable." Eurus sounded suddenly petulant. "But I wanted to play too."

"Huh!" Sherlock exhaled and moaned as though he felt to blame. "Oh God."

John struggled silently against the flooding waters that swelled higher, breaking relentlessly across his chest. Yet listening to Eurus torment her brother set his teeth on edge.

 _Blame!_   _Sherlock is not to blame for what_ you _did!_

In all the years John had known Sherlock, the man did not take blame well. Driven to be right and faultless in all things, all the time, sweating blood over the details, not just to be clever, Sherlock ensured he would remain  _blameless_. Certainly Sherlock had all the classic signs of a genius obsessed with perfection.

Even when admitting, from time to time, to getting his facts wrong, Sherlock had been emphatic that being wrong about something was not the same as being  _to blame_  for something  _going_  wrong. Except, he was not perfect and though it was rare, Sherlock had once or twice been at fault. Accepting the blame for his failure, Sherlock would become excessively hard on himself, melancholy and sullen for days on end. He would persist in being withdrawn and silent, except for his violin playing. The most mournful melodies, some he composed himself, would be heard day and night in the flat until the shadows of his misery dispersed.

No greater darkness swallowed him than the blame he bore for Mary's death. When John, overtaken by despairing grief, had blamed him for killing his wife, Sherlock was stricken with self-loathing. To atone for her death, his broken vow, and the loss of John's friendship, Sherlock had put himself through hell and nearly died seeking forgiveness.

How much he abhorred being to blame, but Sherlock could not have known his phobia had stemmed from a childhood trauma—because he had replaced the truth by telling himself a  _better_ story.

Letting the skull sink softly to floor, John clutched his own head in distress, unable to do more than listen to the weeping of his distraught friend.

"What..." Sherlock soon recovered his voice in short breaths. "What did you do?"

Eurus resumed singing her answer, the words of the song apparently cutting deeper wounds in her grief-stricken brother.

Dumbfounded by all he heard, John was devastated for Sherlock. This secret had been torturing his friend from such an early age and explained the adult's predilection for declaring himself a "high-functioning sociopath," for pretending not to care about others, even for disregarding the consequences of his own risky behavior.

_He couldn't solve the problem and blamed himself. Jesus! He was only a little boy!_

Anger rising like the water around him, John could only imagine what Sherlock was putting himself through even now. With this new information he would be assembling the data about his innocent, childhood friendship and how it had led to this appalling outcome. Only recently Sherlock had told John that "if one could attenuate to every available data stream in the world simultaneously, it would be possible to anticipate and deduce almost anything." Would Sherlock feel he should have foreseen this?

"Victor." A grieving whisper sounded in John's earpiece.

"Deep waters, Sherlock, all your life." The elegiac tone in Eurus' revelation was spectral. "In all your dreams. Deep waters."

"You killed him." Sherlock's sorrow swelled. "You  _killed_  my  _best_  friend."

"I never had a best friend," Eurus reproached, again  _blaming_ Sherlock for not noticing. "I had no one."

 _Goddamnit!_ John seethed with fury. Despite his own danger, he was horrified by Eurus' game. The unsolved disappearance of Victor Trevor had been so clearly traumatizing, Sherlock had repressed it. Yet, it took nearly a lifetime to get past the scar it left, to overcome the loneliness it triggered, and to allow genuine emotions back into his heart. Sherlock had endured sacrifice, torture, vanquished his overweening ego, and experienced genuine remorse for the harm he had caused—all in the name of friendship. On this very day, John had witnessed Sherlock forgive his brother of a cataclysmic betrayal in one selfless act.

John's worries about his own survival in the flooding well were compounded by Eurus' obvious motive—to ruin Sherlock with failure, to wring him out emotionally yet again with blame for another drowned friend. Had this been Eurus and Moriarty's ultimate plan all along—to annihilate Sherlock's heart now that he had opened it to others?

John felt helpless. What could he do to stop this from happening to his friend?

 _"Try as long as possible not to drown,"_  is what Sherlock had advised moments ago.

With absolute certainty, John understood that saving himself from drowning would be saving Sherlock, too. He would do his best.

*888


	4. Chapter 4 Well. And Good.

**TIME WELL SPENT**

**Chapter 4**

**Well.**

**And Good.**

There was no need to panic yet. John had determined that the sturdy chains shackling his ankles had a bit of slack and that he could twist toward the wall. Even though his hands kept slipping off the rock, he could wedge a toe into a crevice and gain a slightly higher elevation. The only problem he could see was that it required someone with the skill and stamina of yoga to maintain the challenging posture indefinitely.

_If there ever was a good time to find my inner yogi, now would be it._

Treading water was not as viable a solution. The weight of the chains that hampered his foot action would impede his ability to stay above the water line for very long, and of course their length meant that, even if he had the stamina, he could not tread if the water rose higher than his chains allowed.

_Refocus!_

John pressed the earpiece tighter and cupped his hand over the other ear to mask the sound of the rushing water. Overhearing the sporadic conversation between the siblings, John sensed that Eurus was still performing brain surgery on Sherlock, messing with his memories, taunting him with blame.

_If there ever was a good time to shut her up, now would be it._

"Don't listen to her…" John growled under his breath, unsure if his interference would exacerbate her inflamed attack. Whether Eurus' volume was turned louder or his mic had been shut down, John's words had not reached his friend.

"No one. No one." Her words stabbed repeatedly. "No one. No one…"

"Okay." Sherlock said. "Okay, let's play."

John's breath caught. Had he heard it right? There was a subtle shift in his friend's voice, the sound of determination. He recognized it well. Sherlock had had a revelation about something positive.

With his heart in his throat and hope coursing through his veins, John listened to the sound of Sherlock  _running_.

And then his earpiece went dead. The loss was paralyzing, his mind emptied suddenly, his heart raced. He stood rigid with fear.

In the next moment, Sherlock's voice returned remarking softly about "…wrong dates. She used the wrong dates on the gravestones as the key to the cipher ... and the cipher was the song."

Over the din of the shower from above and so he would feel some reassuring connection with his friend, John shouted skeptically, "Is this  _strictly_ relevant?"

"Yes, it is. I'll be with you in a minute." Sherlock replied with genuine calm.

And that was their last two-way conversation.

 ****88****   **The last stretch **88****   

It would be more than a minute. The time-lapse was difficult to gauge. Staving off panic creeping chin high with the water, John focused on Sherlock's voice when he could hear him talking to Eurus. When he could not, those were the worst stretches; Sherlock must have been talking with the girl on the plane. To keep himself physically and emotionally balanced during the intermittent audio of Sherlock at work, John stroked the water and gulped for air nervously, anticipating when gulping might become a necessity. 

Faint sounds returned. Sherlock was reciting something John could barely hear. "I ... am ... lost ... Help ... me ... brother ... Save ... My ... Life ... Before ... my ... Doom."

"...help me brother..." John pondered the words as a weariness seeped into his thoughts. He blamed the cold, but he would not give up, he would not submit to the weakness of body, mind or spirit; most of all, he would not surrender his trust in his friend to "save his life before his doom." 

_Yes. We're friends._ Best _friends._   _Like brothers despite everything…_

"I ... am ... Lost ... Without ... your ... love ... Save ... My ... soul ... seek ... my ... room."

_I am not lost…not anymore._

Grunting as he struggled with the forces of buoyancy in a fast-changing environment, John shivered and shook his head. Droplets splashed like his regrets.

 _Rising water will not do us in_.  _We've survived worse._

Up until now, nothing could have been worse than when their friendship had been severely tested by grievous mistakes—human error—made on all sides. If being duped by the phony suicide act off St. Bart's, which left him devastated for years, had not been bad enough, upon discovering Mary's deception, John was left shaken and unsure about believing the people he loved. It had all come back to the same problem: trust issues. Even during their happiest times when all seemed right—the marriage repaired, the detective returned from exile, the birth of their child—John's chary trust in the promises of his wife and his friend made him doubt himself.

In the background of his thoughts, John heard Sherlock declare, "I'm your brother. I'm here, Eurus," spoken with tender regard by a man who had matured emotionally. This was the voice John had needed to hear to ameliorate his suffering—his tragic loss—caused by Sherlock's bogus suicide.

Back then, Sherlock's "sorry" was incapable of it.

After Sherlock had "returned from the dead," it was Mary who had facilitated the uneasy reconciliation, reminding John how much he needed Sherlock, although hurt pride and self-pride, respectively, remained a niggling wedge between them. After her death, there was  _no one_  who could convince John to accept Sherlock back in his life. The damage had been done. The deed was too terrible to be forgiven, at least by John. Numb, John had lost the capacity to care about anything and anyone. As a single father, he was frightened, consumed by self-loathing for his mistakes that affected Rosie; as widower, he was determined to expel "the man who killed his wife" forever from his world.

These not-so-distant memories were as upsetting as the menacing tide that made his teeth chatter. John pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes trying not to let the raw emotions drown him in overwhelming melancholy.

_Gutting …_

Guilt and blame for errors made and vows betrayed were the reasons they had both stayed apart. Bereft, unable to cope, John sought isolation. Deflecting the consolation of friends, he accepted personal blame for cheating—texting the flirting girl on the bus—with punishing penitence, whilst banishing the  _only_  friend who could have assuaged his grief. In John's tortured mind, Sherlock was squarely to blame.

Without a doubt, Sherlock accepted full blame. Tormented by his culpability for causing her death, he capitulated to John's justified rage because he was convinced he deserved it.  _"Let him do what he wants. He's entitled. I killed his wife_." If Mary's sacrifice had not made his life more valuable, Sherlock would have willingly surrendered it in restitution.

_He nearly did._

Each in their own way had suffered terribly when they lost her, and much of their pain in the aftermath had been complicated by depriving the other of the inexorable companionship and comfort they would have shared.

Lost, needing to be found, they had found what they lost where it all began, at 221B Baker Street.

**888**

There, in a place he had once-called home, John could no longer suppress his emotions. Sorrow overwhelmed him. Tears he had not meant to shed in anyone's presence came unbidden, and he could not stop.

With utmost sensitivity, Sherlock Holmes—made humble by accepting his fallibility, made human by expressing his sentiments—had risen slowly from his chair. Pushing aside his own physical and emotional distress, he responded to his friend's need, tenderly commiserating and consoling, as he gently cradled John's bowed head.

Enveloped within his friend's hug, John's tremulous sobs slowly abated. Yet, he did not rush to break away, but lingered, comforted by the healing touch, the human contact, that he had sorely missed and which bound them both in mutual and silent appreciation. As he relaxed, John's resistance softened. He felt his resentments for past transgressions dissolve; a longing to forgive and be forgiven had taken their place, and hope pushed out despair.

"It is what it is." It was, in the end, a meaningful reconciliation between friends, a friendship restored in earnest, and a team reunited because only as a team would they persevere.

**888**

Now, teeming waters threatened the team.

"Open your eyes. I'm here," Sherlock whispered.

Startled, John blinked, not realizing he had clamped his eyes shut in thought, terribly disheartened when he saw no one. The earpiece had fooled him.

Sherlock still whispering to Eurus assured her, "You're not lost any more."

John listened intently. Sherlock was talking as though he was face-to-face with his sister.

"Now, you ... you just ... you just went the wrong way last time, that's all." Sherlock controlled his voice sounding both soft and strong to soothe her. Genuine sentiment supported each word. "This time, get it right. Tell me how to save my friend. Eurus ..."

Grimacing as he struggled with his balance, John stifled a groan, fearful he might break Sherlock's much needed concentration, but Sherlock's concentration remained unwavering as he made his final plea, "Help me save  _John Watson_."

Moved by the cadence of affection Sherlock used to speak his name, John felt buoyant. For both their sakes, John wanted to be the friend Sherlock  _could_  save this time.

Bracing for Eurus' reply, John drew in a cautious breath, but there was no sharp or bitter comeback. John pressed his earpiece tightly to be sure. There was a bit of girlish sobbing, but no words of contemptuous blame, no remarks by an emotionless observer watching a game. Had Sherlock played the game well enough to satisfy Eurus' heartless curiosity? Did Eurus' silence mean Sherlock's success?

John felt his astonishment rise. Could it be that Sherlock had outwitted his opponents with the very attribute they had considered his weakness? Sentiment!

Not long after Sherlock's final words, the water falling into the well slowed to a slight trickle, buying John more time.

_Game over!_

Elated, John grinned with relief. Could it be? In an upset neither Moriarty nor Eurus ever expected, Sherlock had finally ended the Great Game, not through his enormous cleverness, but with his great compassion.

Immense satisfaction calmed John. His racing thoughts, like his earpiece, had also quieted. He raised himself on tiptoes, with his chin tilted upward above the water, resolved that he could wait this way until help arrived. With hope supporting his patience, tranquility settled upon him, suspending his mind in a meditative state.

When at last John heard the shouts of the search and rescue police, he had no clue how much time had passed or even what thoughts had drifted in and out of his awareness. He was chilled, and feeling sleepy, suspecting that the inner peace he had found, disrupted now by signs of imminent rescue, was likely the result of mild hypothermia.

A sudden brilliance blinded him. He shielded his eyes from the large spotlight and grabbed for the rope thrown down to initiate the rescue process. His muscles ached from tensing his body to keep his head raised, and he welcomed the support of a rope to assist him.

John knew the drill. At least his wait would not be long now.

Two harnessed specialists equipped with underwater suits and breathing apparatus dropped down on cables carrying bolt cutters, waterproof torches, and a harness for John. Oddly, their presence made the well seemed suddenly overcrowded. Verifying John's alertness and stable condition, one man attached John to a cable whilst the other snapped the chains to free his ankles. With the weight gone, John groaned in relief, feeling lightheaded and lighthearted.

Patting John on the shoulder, the one rescuer asked, "Ready, mate?"

"No time like the present," John nodded.

The rescuer gave the signal and immediately John felt the first lurch extract him, dripping and cold, from the water; then cautiously and slowly his elevation began. John clung to the lifeline in deep relief and reflection. He may have been lowered in the well as an unconscious man, chained by a past filled with disillusionment, but he was considerably conscious of the changed, contemplative man with a new lease on life who was being winched to safety.

At the top, the police and rescue responders made quick work of their rescued victim. John was whisked into the waiting ambulance, his wet clothes removed and replaced with dry ones, a blanket wrapped about him tightly, whilst his temperature was taken and his blood pressure and oxygen saturations checked. A warm beverage was pressed in his hands. The paramedics were doing a thorough job, fussing somewhat unnecessarily John thought. He was ridiculously eager to be free. At last, with John's persistent assurances along with his good vital signs, they released him.

John paused between the open doors in the back of the ambulance to survey the crowd, seeing the bustling police and rescue activity illuminated by light towers under a night sky, hearing the  _whomp_ ,  _whomp_  of an approaching helicopter, and sorting anxiously through the faces that hurried past.

Observing a solitary and stationary figure several meters away amidst the blur of movement and bright lights, John lifted his hand to shield his eyes, peering harder. The one man not rushing about was staring back at him.

"John!" Sherlock called with one arm raised in a slow wave.

They approached each other with exterior calm, yet John's thoughts raced ahead. He wanted to tell his friend that he had heard nearly everything Eurus had said and that Sherlock should not take the blame; that Sherlock should not suffer alone in his guilt. Together they would get over the past. John wanted to congratulate Sherlock for winning the long battle of wits against Moriarty and Eurus. He wanted to remark that Sherlock's emotional maturity and sensitivity coupled by his intellect was the solution to the final problem. John decided he would even admit that his time spent at the bottom of a well had given him tremendous insights and perspective about his life, about his responsibilities, and about his friend. Most especially, he was grateful this new awareness had not drowned with him.

When they stood face-to-face, John could not bring himself to say any of it. Sherlock's intense scrutiny prevented him. Instead, they remained silent, appraising each other. John studied his friend, noting the mouth drawn and sad, the dark shadows beneath the high cheekbones, the brow ridged by deep worries. Yet, John sensed he was seeing a man who had found redemption after experiencing the fury of a woman scorned. This perception became confirmed when John saw in Sherlock's slowly growing smile the goodness of the great man who was his best friend.

John flashed a reciprocal smile, reached for Sherlock's hand, and swallowed his euphoria to whisper hoarsely, "You did it!" When their hands joined, John immediately realized that the words he had rehearsed in his head were not necessary. The man who could read him like an open book already knew what John had wanted to say.

Sherlock wrapped his free arm around John's shoulders and pulled him closer for a brief hug. When he let go and stepped back, Sherlock leant forward with his head bowed toward John and asked cautiously, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," John grinned softly. "Yeah, better than okay. I think now we're both  _good_."

88888

**Author's Note:**

> Very special thanks to englishtutor and Fang's Fawn for their beta skills, encouragement, and faith in me. Also, while I do diligently review (over and over and over) Sherlock episodes to transcribe dialog (over which I claim no rights) from the BBC show, I shortened my labors immensely again, during the course of composing this fanfiction, thanks to the wonderful and brilliant transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan to whom I am always greatly indebted.


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